Okay, time to turn on my own little psychological autopilot and drive home. Actually, he didn't even think that, he just did it. For five years he'd been doing the same thing every single workday. Climb into the car. Drive home. Five years of habit. So he surprised himself when he stopped in front of the very house Black had wanted him to visit.
Hmm, Freudian slip, I guess. Freudian complete realignment of driving directions. Like a Freudian GPS. Whatever.
He pulled up to the house and sat in his car looking at it for a minute. Contrary to popular belief, despite its being a crime scene, it was not "toilet papered" with yellow and black police tape. It being an entire week since the latest mangled body was pulled from the place, there was no longer even a single news van parked illegally in front of it. The only clue that the place was a crime was a crudely installed hasp and lock on the front door, secured by a padlock. Well, that and the broken window in the front which made the lock the police had installed completely worthless. The broken window was very large, practically what one might call "French doors," and naturally, was not caused by the same events that caused the death. The broken window was just a bit of random mayhem, kids breaking in to wander around, drink in the lovely atmosphere of death and see if there was anything left to steal.
Zucken was a grey Camry with its door open parked in the driveway. That must be Black's. He got out of his car. I'm here, might as well see what game the damsel in distress is playing. Better than another night alone, anyway. Maybe he'd just give her the interview and take her to dinner. He walked up to her car and suddenly felt a little strange to be arriving empty handed. He almost felt like he should have a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine with him. It's been a long time since I've been on a date. A generation, an era. Flowers? Really.
He head a familiar ding-ding-ding as he walked up to the open driver's door. The key was in the ignition and the Toyota was politely complaining. Silly girl, she'll run down her battery. He reached in and took the keys out, then he closed the door. This really wasn't the neighborhood for this sort of carelessness.
He walked up to the house. A nice house, large, pinkish-beige stucco, shake roof. It had little turrets and rounded windows, a suburban house aspiring to be a Gothic-inspired Hobbit-hole.
- More to come ---
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